Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  That love for little things by Fate

  Is rendered vain as love for great.

  Yet, where the guardian fence is wound,

  So subtly are our eyes beguiled

  We see not nor suspect a bound,

  No more than in some forest wild;

  The sight is free as air—or crost

  Only by art in nature lost. 30

  And, though the jealous turf refuse

  By random footsteps to be prest,

  And feed on never-sullied dews,

  ‘Ye’, gentle breezes from the west,

  With all the ministers of hope

  Are tempted to this sunny slope!

  And hither throngs of birds resort;

  Some, inmates lodged in shady nests,

  Some, perched on stems of stately port

  That nod to welcome transient guests; 40

  While hare and leveret, seen at play,

  ‘Appear’ not more shut out than they.

  Apt emblem (for reproof of pride)

  This delicate Enclosure shows

  Of modest kindness, that would hide

  The firm protection she bestows;

  Of manners, like its viewless fence,

  Ensuring peace to innocence.

  Thus spake the moral Muse—her wing

  Abruptly spreading to depart, 50

  She left that farewell offering,

  Momento for some docile heart;

  That may respect the good old age

  When Fancy was Truth’s willing Page;

  And Truth would skim the flowery glade,

  Though entering but as Fancy’s Shade.

  1824.

  TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P.

  A STREAM, to mingle with your favourite Dee,

  Along the VALE OF MEDITATION flows;

  So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see

  In Nature’s face the expression of repose;

  Or haply there some pious hermit chose

  To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim;

  To whom the wild sequestered region owes

  At this late day, its sanctifying name.

  GLYN CAFAILLGAROCH, in the Cambrian tongue,

  In ours, the VALE OF FRIENDSHIP, let ‘this’ spot 10

  Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot,

  On Deva’s banks, ye have abode so long;

  Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb,

  Even on this earth, above the reach of Time!

  TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES, 1824

  HOW art thou named? In search of what strange land

  From what huge height, descending? Can such force

  Of waters issue from a British source,

  Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band

  Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand

  Desperate as thine? Or come the incessant shocks

  From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocks

  Of Viamala? There I seem to stand,

  As in life’s morn; permitted to behold,

  From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods, 10

  In pomp that fades not; everlasting snows;

  And skies that ne’er relinquish their repose;

  Such power possess the family of floods

  Over the minds of Poets, young or old!

  COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES

  THROUGH shattered galleries, ‘mid roofless halls,

  Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed,

  The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid

  Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls

  Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid

  His lenient touches, soft as light that falls,

  From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls,

  Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade.

  Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars,

  To winds abandoned and the prying stars, 10

  Time ‘loves’ Thee! at his call the Seasons twine

  Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar;

  And, though past pomp no changes can restore,

  A soothing recompence, his gift, is thine!

  1824.

  ELEGIAC STANZAS ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW

  O FOR a dirge! But why complain?

  Ask rather a triumphal strain

  When FERMOR’S race is run;

  A garland of immortal boughs

  To twine around the Christian’s brows,

  Whose glorious work is done.

  We pay a high and holy debt;

  No tears of passionate regret

  Shall stain this votive lay;

  Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief 10

  That flings itself on wild relief

  When Saints have passed away.

  Sad doom, at Sorrow’s shrine to kneel,

  For ever covetous to feel,

  And impotent to bear!

  Such once was hers—to think and think

  On severed love, and only sink

  From anguish to despair!

  But nature to its inmost part

  Faith had refined; and to her heart 20

  A peaceful cradle given:

  Calm as the dew-drop’s, free to rest

  Within a breeze-fanned rose’s breast

  Till it exhales to Heaven.

  Was ever Spirit that could bend

  So graciously?—that could descend,

  Another’s need to suit,

  So promptly from her lofty throne?—

  In works of love, in these alone,

  How restless, how minute! 30

  Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek

  Ne’er kindled with a livelier streak

  When aught had suffered wrong,—

  When aught that breathes had felt a wound;

  Such look the Oppressor might confound,

  However proud and strong.

  But hushed be every thought that springs

  From out the bitterness of things;

  Her quiet is secure;

  No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 40

  Whose life was, like the violet, sweet,

  As climbing jasmine, pure—

  As snowdrop on an infant’s grave,

  Or lily heaving with the wave

  That feeds it and defends;

  As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed

  The mountain top, or breathed the mist

  That from the vale ascends.

  Thou takest not away, O Death!

  Thou strikest—absence perisheth, 50

  Indifference is no more;

  The future brightens on our sight;

  For on the past hath fallen a light

  That tempts us to adore.

  1824.

  CENOTAPH

  BY vain affections unenthralled,

  Though resolute when duty called

  To meet the world’s broad eye,

  Pure as the holiest cloistered nun

  That ever feared the tempting sun,

  Did Fermor live and die.

  This Tablet, hallowed by her name,

  One heart-relieving tear may claim;

  But if the pensive gloom

  Of fond regret be still thy choice, 10

  Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice

  Of Jesus from her tomb!

  “I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE”

  1824.

  EPITAPH IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND

  BY playful smiles, (alas! too oft

  A sad heart’s sunshine, by a soft

  And gentle nature, and a free

  Yet modest hand of charity,

  Through life was OWEN LLOYD endeared

  To young and old; and how revered

  Had been that pious spirit, a tide

  Of humble mourners testified,

  When, after pains dispensed to prove
r />   The measure of God’s chastening love, 10

  Here, brought from far, his corse found rest,—

  Fulfilment of his own request;—

  Urged less for this Yew’s shade, though he

  Planted with such fond hope the tree;

  Less for the love of stream and rock,

  Dear as they were, than that his Flock,

  When they no more their Pastor’s voice

  Could hear to guide them in their choice

  Through good and evil, help might have,

  Admonished, from his silent grave, 20

  Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,

  For peace on earth and bliss in heaven.

  1824.

  THE CONTRAST; THE PARROT AND THE WREN

  I

  WITHIN her gilded cage confined,

  I saw a dazzling Belle,

  A Parrot of that famous kind

  Whose name is NON-PAREIL.

  Like beads of glossy jet her eyes;

  And, smoothed by Nature’s skill,

  With pearl or gleaming agate vies

  Her finely-curved bill.

  Her plumy mantle’s living hues

  In mass opposed to mass, 10

  Outshine the splendour that imbues

  The robes of pictured glass.

  And, sooth to say, an apter Mate

  Did never tempt the choice

  Of feathered Thing most delicate

  In figure and in voice.

  But, exiled from Australian bowers,

  And singleness her lot,

  She trills her song with tutored powers,

  Or mocks each casual note. 20

  No more of pity for regrets

  With which she may have striven!

  Now but in wantonness she frets,

  Or spite, if cause be given;

  Arch, volatile, a sportive bird

  By social glee inspired;

  Ambitious to be seen or heard,

  And pleased to be admired!

  II

  THIS moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry,

  Harbours a self-contented Wren, 30

  Not shunning man’s abode, though shy,

  Almost as thought itself, of human ken.

  Strange places, coverts unendeared,

  She never tried; the very nest

  In which this Child of Spring was reared,

  Is warmed, thro’ winter, by her feathery breast.

  To the bleak winds she sometimes gives

  A slender unexpected strain;

  Proof that the hermitess still lives,

  Though she appear not, and be sought in vain. 40

  Say, Dora! tell me, by yon placid moon,

  If called to choose between the favoured pair,

  Which would you be,—the bird of the saloon

  By lady-fingers tended with nice care,

  Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed,

  Or Nature’s DARKLING of this mossy shed?

  1825.

  TO A SKY-LARK

  ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

  Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

  Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

  Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

  Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,

  Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

  Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

  A privacy of glorious light is thine;

  Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

  Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 10

  Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;

  True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

  1825.

  ERE WITH COLD BEADS OF MIDNIGHT DEW

  ERE with cold beads of midnight dew

  Had mingled tears of thine,

  I grieved, fond Youth! that thou shouldst sue

  To haughty Geraldine.

  Immoveable by generous sighs,

  She glories in a train

  Who drag, beneath our native skies,

  An oriental chain.

  Pine not like them with arms across,

  Forgetting in thy care 10

  How the fast-rooted trees can toss

  Their branches in mid air.

  The humblest rivulet will take

  Its own wild liberties;

  And, every day, the imprisoned lake

  Is flowing in the breeze.

  Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee,

  But scorn with scorn outbrave;

  A Briton, even in love, should be

  A subject, not a slave! 20

  1826.

  ODE: COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING

  WHILE from the purpling east departs

  The star that led the dawn,

  Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,

  For May is on the lawn.

  A quickening hope, a freshening glee,

  Foreran the expected Power,

  Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,

  Shakes off that pearly shower.

  All Nature welcomes Her whose sway

  Tempers the year’s extremes; 10

  Who scattereth lustres o’er noon-day,

  Like morning’s dewy gleams;

  While mellow warble, sprightly trill,

  The tremulous heart excite;

  And hums the balmy air to still

  The balance of delight.

  Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids

  At peep of dawn would rise,

  And wander forth, in forest glades

  Thy birth to solemnize. 20

  Though mute the song—to grace the rite

  Untouched the hawthorn bough,

  Thy Spirit triumphs o’er the slight;

  Man changes, but not Thou!

  Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings

  In love’s disport employ;

  Warmed by thy influence, creeping things

  Awake to silent joy:

  Queen art thou still for each gay plant

  Where the slim wild deer roves; 30

  And served in depths where fishes haunt

  Their own mysterious groves.

  Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,

  Instinctive homage pay;

  Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath

  To honour thee, sweet May!

  Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs

  Behold a smokeless sky,

  Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares

  To open a bright eye. 40

  And if, on this thy natal morn,

  The pole, from which thy name

  Hath not departed, stands forlorn

  Of song and dance and game;

  Still from the village-green a vow

  Aspires to thee addrest,

  Wherever peace is on the brow,

  Or love within the breast.

  Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach

  The soul to love the more; 50

  Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

  That never loved before.

  Stript is the haughty one of pride,

  The bashful freed from fear,

  While rising, like the ocean-tide,

  In flows the joyous year.

  Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse

  The service to prolong!

  To yon exulting thrush the Muse

  Entrusts the imperfect song; 60

  His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

  Throughout the live-long day,

  Till the first silver star appear,

  The sovereignty of May.

  1826.

  TO MAY

  THOUGH many suns have risen and set

  Since thou, blithe May, wert born,

  And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget

  Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;

  There are who to a birthday strain

  Confine not harp and voice,

  But evermore th
roughout thy reign

  Are grateful and rejoice!

  Delicious odours! music sweet,

  Too sweet to pass away! 10

  Oh for a deathless song to meet

  The soul’s desire—a lay

  That, when a thousand years are told,

  Should praise thee, genial Power!

  Through summer heat, autumnal cold,

  And winter’s dreariest hour.

  Earth, sea, thy presence feel—nor less,

  If yon ethereal blue

  With its soft smile the truth express,

  The heavens have felt it too. 20

  The inmost heart of man if glad

  Partakes a livelier cheer;

  And eyes that cannot but be sad

  Let fall a brightened tear.

  Since thy return, through days and weeks

  Of hope that grew by stealth,

  How many wan and faded cheeks

  Have kindled into health!

  The Old, by thee revived, have said,

  “Another year is ours;”30

  And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed

  Have smiled upon thy flowers.

  Who tripping lisps a merry song

  Amid his playful peers?

  The tender Infant who was long

  A prisoner of fond fears;

  But now, when every sharp-edged blast

  Is quiet in its sheath,

  His Mother leaves him free to taste

  Earth’s sweetness in thy breath. 40

  Thy help is with the weed that creeps

  Along the humblest ground;

  No cliff so bare but on its steeps

  Thy favours may be found;

  But most on some peculiar nook

  That our own hands have drest,

  Thou and thy train are proud to look,

  And seem to love it best.

  And yet how pleased we wander forth

  When May is whispering, “Come! 50

  “Choose from the bowers of virgin earth

  “The happiest for your home;

  “Heaven’s bounteous love through me is spread

  “From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves,

  “Drops on the mouldering turret’s head,

  “And on your turf-clad graves!”

  Such greeting heard, away with sighs

  For lilies that must fade,

  Or “the rathe primrose as it dies

  Forsaken” in the shade! 60

  Vernal fruitions and desires

  Are linked in endless chase;

  While, as one kindly growth retires,

  Another takes its place.

  And what if thou, sweet May, hast known,

  Mishap by worm and blight;

  If expectations newly blown

  Have perished in thy sight;